The Critic
by TwilightSnowStar
Summary: A mysterious man, known only as The Critic, gives forceful "suggestions" to theater companies.  But what could have caused the notoriously insensitive and exacting critic to write praises of a chorus girl? Modern EC Rated T for safety.
1. Chapter 1

**_Ok, so, this is my first serious phanphiction. Who knows if I'll even continue, but this idea has been in my head for days as just a title, so here it is._**

_**This is Modern Day but it might not go exactly as any of the different book/movie/musical versions go. **_

**_I have some plans for this. Although, the only way I'll know if it's even worth continuing is if I get reviews saying I should._**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Phantom of the Opera characters or the Phantom of the Opera story._**

**_Oh, and pay attention to everything, please!_**

* * *

It was hard to be the editor of a newspaper these days, especially if it was a small one.

Jonathon Plusope, the editor of their small newspaper, rubbed his tired eyes with fingers that ached from constant typing and revising. At this point in the day—the sun was almost gone from the sky—most of his employees had gone. So, then, why was he still here?

Why, indeed?

Jonathon Plusope had a secret. It wasn't a horrible secret; at least, that was what he told himself. Surely it was normal? If not normal, it wasn't altogether unusual. Simply unique. Slowly, Mr. Plusope rested his head in his hands, closing his eyes, but knowing he couldn't sleep, remaining alert to every single sound. No, there wasn't anything wrong with his arrangement with his writer.

The hum of the heaters turning off made Mr. Plusope start, anxious to be gone, but _he _wasn't there yet. And, Mr. Plusope knew, if he wasn't there when _he_ came, the consequences would be great. At least, that was what he figured. He had never simply left before his writer had delivered his latest piece. He wanted to; it was what he was yearning to do now, but Mr. Plusope knew. He knew from the look in the yellow eyes of his writer, his writer that was more editor than he himself was! Yes, there would be consequences if Mr. Plusope wasn't there to receive his article and his wishes.

A door creaked; Jonathon Plusope jumped. Was _he_ here? Mr. Plusope strained his ears to hear the soft footsteps that he knew would be coming. Yet, before his weak ears even acknowledged another's tread, there _he_ was. Mr. Plusope, looking up in terror, was met with those dispassionate yellow eyes, the only illumination in the man's—was it a man?—dark, black-swathed figure.

"Good evening, Mr. Plusope." The voice spoke, and for a second, Mr. Plusope forgot his fright, his fatigue, and his scruples. Why would a voice like that want to be trapped in the silent world of print?

"G-Good evening, sir." The shadow dipped its head, a nod from a time that was long dead. Mr. Plusope could feel the emanating darkness and formality enveloping him, all coming from the _man_ in front of him.

"I trust that your mistake regarding Ms Lawson's piece was dealt with?" The yellow eyes behind the dark mask narrowed, daring Jonathon Plusope to defy him and say that he had disregarded _his_ orders.

Mr. Plusope blanched, "Of course, sir. Yes…yes…you were right. Her article about the…new theater being built was completely—"

"Asinine, Mr. Plusope. I haven't the faintest idea why you keep her on your staff. The woman writes such drivel."

For some odd reason, Mr. Plusope felt in fear for Ms Lawson's life. Anything that could make that voice sound so…menacing was clearly in danger. Jonathon Plusope cleared his throat, attempting to still his shaking hands that he was sure the masked man saw and appreciated. "Sir, she is a talented writer, but she has been troubled lately, family problems, you know…"

The shadow sharply glanced at Mr. Plusope. "No, Mr. Plusope, I do not know. Nor do I see personal problems as a reason to be lax with one's work. See that her next attempt at writing is better than her last, or she will have much more time to work out her," he spat out the words, "_family_ problems."

Mr. Plusope didn't even pause to wonder how the masked man could have more power than he, the editor. No, now the editor was to be the simpering sycophant.

"Of course, sir. Thank you. I'll make sure that she works harder. Thank you, sir." The masked man nodded. The anger in his eyes at the mention of family fading, leaving behind the cold, clear fire that seemed quite ready to burn at the slightest provocation.

"Good. As for our business tonight, tell that moronic scribbler that you assigned to the new theater production that his services will not be needed. I will see to the review myself. It is a new production and I wish to see what they must improve." The shadow narrowed his eyes at the thought of the "moronic scribbler."

Mr. Plusope, of course, quickly acceded to his critic's demands with no surprise. The masked man had been under the "employ" of the newspaper for close to five years now; although, it was necessary to know that he was more in charge than Mr. Plusope himself. That first day that he had entered the office—a night that Mr. Plusope was working late—would possibly go down in Jonathon Plusope's life as the most terrifying night of his life; at least, until the next month when the masked man visited again, and then the next month, and on and on.

The masked critic nodded at Mr. Plusope's cooperation. It had crossed Mr. Plusope's mind what might happen if he did not agree to the masked shadow's demands. Memories of failed newspaper editions, accidents, whispers in the night, reminded him as to why he did so fully consent to the man's wishes.

"Excellent," the shadow declared in a triumphant voice, seeing the fear that had allowed his wants to be met. "I will have the piece on your desk the morning after the first performance, Monday I believe." Mr. Plusope did not even conjecture as to how the man would get into the locked office, or how he could get a ticket to the highly anticipated theater production on such short notice when he didn't even know the date of the opening night.

"Of-of course, sir."

"You will run it with the next edition, and you will compensate me for my work." The shadow did that thing where its eyes bore into Mr. Plusope's.

"Y-yes," replied Mr. Plusope, shaking again.

"Very good." And he left. The masked man seemed to simply dissipate, but Mr. Plusope knew that he couldn't. After all, the man was a man wasn't he? He wasn't, he couldn't be, a shadow. Or perhaps….

No, Mr. Plusope did not want to think on his mysterious masked critic any more than he really had to. Five years. He shuddered, remembering again that night that the man had come in, demanding to have his article about the recent opera printed. Mr. Plusope had almost laughed if not for the hostility coming out of those yellow eyes, the terrible power emanating off of the figure, and of course, the odd lasso that made Mr. Plusope feel the need to keep his hand above his head…

Ever since, the man had come and gone, effectively running the newspaper and getting paid by way of terrifying the editor. Perhaps the staff knew, Mr. Plusope didn't care, nor did his self-appointed critic. In fact, Mr. Pluscope thought, he probably enjoyed that knowledge that everyone knew exactly who was in charge of the newspaper. The editor got the firm impression that the shadow enjoyed control, particularly control of knowledge, and what better way to control that than by a newspaper?

He was eloquent, though; even through his fear, Mr. Pluscope couldn't deny that the masked man was a valuable critic. The man critiqued at least one theater production, ballet, or opera every few weeks, being ridiculously paid all the while. Normally the masked man was an unforgiving critic, demanding perfection, and not afraid to mention exactly who had caused his displeasure.

With a sigh, Mr. Pluscope got ready to turn off his computer, ready to head home after such an exhausting day. Before he did, however, he looked up the website for the theater and their new production. He found the dates and times, synopsis, and even the cast. Quickly looking through the names, Jonathon Pluscope readied himself to familiarize himself with the names of those that would probably be printed in the shadow's next piece, knowing that he couldn't change any part of it for fear that the oddly disturbing lasso would find a home around his neck. No, all Mr. Pluscope could do was be prepared for those who would furiously call the office and complain while asking for the grounds for their being so libeled.

He sighed and began to make a list on a piece of notepad, mostly of the chorus members that he had never heard of so as to be ready, for surely the critic would start with those who were surely the worst.

_Michael Camper, Sofia Trotti, Paula Urbes…_

Would it never end? Mr. Pluscope started to wonder as he wrote if maybe he shouldn't just go to the police. The masked man was definitely an extortionist, and if half of the 'accidents' that had occurred in the newspaper office to those that were disfavored by the critic were by him, then there was definitely something that the shadow could be locked away for.

_Yuri Etyuit, Margaret Giry…_

But no, Jonathon Pluscope knew, the masked man was not someone that could be controlled by something as mundane as a police force. He almost checked himself—as he wrote down the last member's name—the critic might be able to read his thoughts. Silly, perhaps, but somehow, it wouldn't surprise Mr. Pluscope if even his mind wasn't safe from the masked man.

He sighed again, putting down his pen and looking at the last name he had written.

_Christine Daae…_

**_Well, there it is. I had a lot of fun writing this one chapter, and I'm already imagining the next one, probably through EPOV. And I'm guessing you all should be able to guess what it will be about...._**

**_Once again, tell me if you think this is even worth continuing. And to do that, one must review!_**

**_So, questions? Comments? Concerns? _**

**_TwilightSnowStar_**


	2. Chapter 2

**_Well, so I finally updated. I had to figure out exactly how I had to do this. This is the fateful "sighting" chapter, and it's an important one._**

**_This will, primarily, be a Modern adaptation, but it will be an adaptation, I won't go exactly by any one source. Some of this is me being creative; not much, but some._**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera._**

* * *

"Meg! Where are you?"

"Here, Christine! Come on; hurry up!"

"Wait, Meg!"

Christine Daae's fingers fumbled, adjusting the last bit of her costume before she was to go onstage with Meg and the rest of the chorus members. Even though her own role in the anxiously awaited new theater production was a very minor one, she felt the need to look perfect.

_You're just another girl on the farm, Christine Daae._

Shaking her head at the pessimistic thoughts, Christine continued to smooth out the wrinkles of her "country girl" costume, while simultaneously running to keep up with her almost identically clad friend, Meg Giry.

"We're on in 5, people," stage whispered Michael, self-named leader of the chorus/dancers.

Meg rolled her eyes at him, quickly grinning at Christine, who was still carefully adjusting her hair. "Ok, stop, Christine. You look fine," Meg exasperated while grabbing Christine's hands and pulling them away from her hair.

"Are you sure?" Christine was nervous. This was the biggest role she had ever played, ironically. It sure beat being the lead in the elementary school rendition of _The Big Bad Wolf_, and she did not want to mess this up. It was opening night of the new theater production that had been advertised for months. The well-known theater had spread the word about the new play, _Strawberry Bushels_, and the cast had spent so much time and energy with rehearsals. In Christine's mind, the play wasn't going to be made into a movie anytime soon, but the music was good—she often found herself unconsciously humming it.

Meg rolled her eyes at Christine now, "Yes, I'm sure." She giggled, bubbly with enthusiasm, "Don't worry so much. Aren't you excited?"

Christine barely heard the question, intent on reciting all her songs and steps in her head, "What? Yeah, I guess," she said absentmindedly. Did she spin right or left in the second song? She wrung her hands nervously, looking very distraught while that simple fact eluded her, "Meg, in _Tractor Days_, do we do the quarter turn right or left?"

Meg frowned, remembering, "Left, I think. Seriously, Christine, calm down. You'll remember once you're on stage. And if not, no one will notice; we're in the back."

Christine bit her lip in anxiety, nodding, trying not to let Meg's unsuspecting words bite into her. Of course no one would notice. She was only a member of the chorus, good for harmonizing with the other members and twirling in her bright skirt. She shook her head at her childishness—it was silly now to think that a chorus girl's costume needed to be perfect. Meg was right; no one would notice.

Christine broke out of her thoughts when Michael let everyone know that they were on in 2—"Shut up, Mike!—and looked back at her friend. Meg was watching her with another uncharacteristic frown, and Christine tried her best to summon up a smile to stop bringing her friend down. Meg smiled back, and with a whispered, "Good luck," led her friend to their spots right behind the curtain, waiting for their cue.

Christine's smile faded. _I'll try to do good, Dad_, she offered up, before following the other chorus members out onto the stage.

Staring out at the audience ahead of her, Christine could not make out any facial features of the dim crowd, only seeing a vague outline of a body here, a face there. She tried not to let the nervousness grip her, and wondered why this stage fright had never afflicted her as a child, when her father was...—no. Stop it, she told herself, moving mechanically to the tune of the orchestra below her feet.

Beside her, Christine could feel Meg doing the same moves as she, singing the same notes, and Christine was relieved that her friend had been right. She didn't even need to concentrate on remembering her role; it was practically embedded in her feet and arms.

In front of them, the two leads, Carlotta Guielli and Eddy Pickering were singing their song, _Nighttime_. In the back of Christine's mind, she was jealous of the domineering diva. Even if Carlotta had the personality of a snake, she at least could hit those incredible high notes and project her voice so that the audience heard every word. But there was no room for self pity now, Christine reminded herself. She suddenly wished that she wasn't so well prepared. She would have liked to concentrate on her movements without dwelling too much on her own shortcomings.

And when it was the chorus' time to raise their heads and sing, Christine's eyes rested on an oddly empty box above the packed audience. That was weird—she had thought that the production was sold out. The managers had been so happy to tell everyone the news of half a year's worth of successful ad campaigning. But it seemed as if that lonely box was empty and darkened. But it wasn't totally dark, Christine noticed. No, it looked like there were two yellow lights on, likely from some machine on the door, a lock or something.

Pushing the strange lights out of her mind, Christine finally concentrated on what she was doing after she stopped singing just a little later than she should have during the dramatic stop of the song. She wasn't aware that the two yellow "security lights" seemed to be moving, almost as if they were following her progress…

* * *

Before the curtain had opened, the crowd below him had shuffled their programs, exclaimed over the actors and formed a buzz with all their talks that the lone occupant of one of the boxes above found himself developing a headache. Honestly, their insipid noise was becoming too much and the man wanted very much to leave, but he couldn't, not yet. These sniveling, ingratiating _people_ had no idea how a play should be watched or what it should be. Yes, the critic thought, he would make sure that they would know.

Finally the lights began to dim, and the black-garbed man finally began to sink into a semblance of relaxation, leaning back slightly in the red velvet seat as the spectators below quieted and silence reigned in the darkened theater. If only it had lasted.

The passable orchestra struck up the overture, playing music that was not entirely jarring to the man's sensitive ears. The curtain opened, showing a lone woman walking in wearing what looked to be some type of burlap dress, carrying a basket. The critic's eyes narrowed—how disgustingly _quaint_. He hoped that her voice made up for her costume. She opened her mouth, and the shadow prepared himself for something. He was not disappointed.

The woman's voice grated on his ears, almost making him reach up to cover them with his hands. Her voice was too loud, too shrill, too…ugh! He furiously opened his program, determined to find the woman's name so that he would know exactly who to write about first.

And then her male counterpart, wearing similar burlap clothing, leaped out from the sides, screaming about his passionate love for the offending female. The two started to sing a sickeningly sweet duet, and the man's eyes narrowed in complete and utter disgust. The boy's voice was sufficiently plain, but its sheer proximity to the agonizingly horrible female's warped it in his mind. Yes, the critic knew exactly what he would write.

The chorus came on then—similarly dressed to the first couple, twirling and singing out of tune, right along with the two leads. The man looked down, observing the looks of contentment and smiles of the audience. Oh, they would be shown indeed.

Turning his gaze back to the chorus to try and extract more criticisms, the man frowned. He did not frown because of their badly choreographed movements, their ridiculous song, or even their bright, cheery expressions, no, he frowned because there was something quite odd about the multitude of voices belting at him.

A thread of _something_ coming from the chorus was making the man strangely uneasy, with an alien feeling stirring somewhere inside his ribcage. His hand was clenching and unclenching, and he glanced down sharply at the offending appendage, wondering what was going on. What was it?

The man closed his eyes, straining his ears further, trying to grasp the elusive _something_ that was so….he could not describe it. It was very rare that the man could not come up with an appropriately acerbic name for something, but in this instance, he couldn't, nor did he feel the need to search for a biting adjective to describe the troubling _something_. He just kept listening, trying to identify the indefinable thing that was…

_There_.

The chorus had been singing their song throughout his attempt to locate the strange tone, and they had come to an abrupt halt, for seemingly dramatic effect. But the abrupt silence was not completely achieved, as one song was half a beat late, and for that half of a beat, the masked man identified the _something_ as the voice of the girl that was off time with the rest of the chorus. Opening his eyes, the shadowed man kept a hold of the voice as he was able to separate it from the rest of the chorus.

The odd voice was coming from a girl in the back of the group. She was pale, almost as much as the man himself, and her blonde hair was pulled back in a red kerchief that framed a soft face. He watched her as she danced and sang beside a brunette with a completely ordinary voice. His lip curled, knowing the blonde could easily outshine the entire chorus.

And yet, she didn't, and the shadow watched her, almost spellbound as she and the rest of the chorus ran off the stage, leaving the two burlap-dressed people to another love duet, but the masked man wasn't thinking about the one mediocre voice and the other atrocious one at the moment. No his mind was on the blonde.

The girl's voice was not truly odd, after he had heard it solely, but it was unique in its tone, a clear, shining, golden voice. Yet she was wasting it! The man had not been able to properly ascertain her voice at first because of its softness. She was being drowned out by the other chorus members! Irony of ironies, he had wanted quiet, the girl had given him an almost nonexistent volume.

Her breathing was wrong, her range was middling, and it unexpectedly angered him how she was standing in the back of the chorus.

The rest of the first act was not even noticed by the masked man, mulling over the problem of the girl. It was strange; she had become a problem somehow in ten minutes. He had never let anyone hold his thoughts for so long. The man yearned to leave. He did not want a chorus girl affecting him so, yet—whether he wanted to admit it or not—her voice had inexplicably left an imprint. The raw, untrained voice was consuming his thoughts, and he felt oddly and insanely…different.

It was in the bright lights of intermission that the man finally shrunk back from the edge of his box—into the shadows—and looked in the program for a picture of the face that was branded in his mind, finding the name that went with the voice.

There.

_There…_

Christine Daae

_Christine Daae…_

* * *

_**Ok, so as always, I would love feedback. Any opinions? Anything I can improve. Honestly, I think I was meant to write Oneshots, but I have plans for this, and I like it in my head. **_

**_If you can tell me what you think of the characterization, I'd be grateful. I'm still a little unsure about what I was thinking when I started this, as I'm still kind of new to writing Phantom, but once again, I have a plan._**

**_So, yeah..._**

**_Questions? Comments? Concerns?_**

**_TwilightSnowStar_**

**_P.S. More reviews = Faster Updates (I know; I'm shameless.)_**


	3. Chapter 3

**_Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera._**

* * *

It had been a difficult Tuesday for Jonathon Plusope. The difficulty had not come from his wife's morning lecture about how he had grown distant, nor had it been from the careful and reluctant warnings he had given towards Ms Lawson regarding her family life encroaching upon her work. No, the day had been fairly normal, or at least, it would have been, had it not been for the plain, unmarked envelope that had greeted him the second he had sat down at his desk.

The disgustingly familiar envelope held something that Jonathon Plusope looked upon with a mixture of anger drowned out by fear. When had his life come to this? When had the biddings of a masked man become the priority of his life? How could he have so easily usurped him for real control of the newspaper, or knowledge? Most importantly, how could he get into the locked office in the dead of night? Why did he always have the urge to protect his neck when he saw the masked man's long, grasping fingers or the rope that only was sometimes revealed to him and only when the masked man was threatening him?

Not for the first time, Jonathon Plusope wished that he was not a coward.

Opening the envelope, he readied himself to read of the masked man's displeasure. Mr. Plusope's eyes widened as they scanned the contents of the man's review, his hands shaking as they tightened their hold on the paper. Even more unsettling than the critique was the masked man's wishes written at the bottom of the page in his own blood red scribbles, _'Wait for me tonight.'_

And so Mr. Plusope's Tuesday was ruined with the prospect of the masked man's uncalled for visit. The thought of the troubling review didn't help his nerves, shown by the spilled coffee, blank looks, and anxiety attacks of the day that made the entire staff of the newspaper aware that for some reason the 'Critic' would be making an appearance.

After the last staff-member finally left, leaving the shaking Mr. Plusope with a sympathetic look, Jonathon Plusope smoothed out the crumpled review, reading it over again, memorizing it _again_ in order to be prepared for the masked man's unexpected and completely unwanted 'visit'.

In order to be a good writer, as Mr. Plusope obviously was, he had trained himself to avoid clichés, overused phrases, crutches born out of lack of vocabulary skills, but the only way to describe the masked man's entrance was…hair raising…it made his skin crawl…and so on and so forth.

Of course, he appeared out of thin air…_again_. Jonathon Plusope knew that he _couldn't_ have simply materialized. It was impossible, right? Right?

"Good evening, Mr. Plusope." Or maybe not.

"G-good evening, s-sir." The usual formal yet terrifying round of pleasantries done with, Mr. Plusope tried to cease his shaking enough to examine the man, at least, as inconspicuously as possible, and without looking into his eyes of course—if Mr. Plusope looked into those lights he would not know how to proceed…how to breathe…how to not cringe in terror and fascination.

"Regarding the latest review, Mr. Plusope, this meeting will be quick and hopefully," the masked man's words took on an oddly more terrifying tone, an ominous mixture of a threat and a desperation, "painless." The man hissed on the last syllable. He drew in a breath, leaching the air from the room.

"You will print this in the next edition of your newspaper. It will be prominently featured. You will not change a _letter_." Jonathon Plusope's eyes had inadvertently glanced up into the masked man's, and the obvious menace in those glowing, searing, _burning _fires that threatened to smote him right there. "I believe that you comprehend what will happen if such an alteration occurs. Am I correct?" Mr. Plusope dumbly nodded, caught in the eyes that would not let him escape into the world of light. "Excellent. And of course, as per usual, you will state the review as from the Critic."

The masked man finally released Mr. Plusope, which made him remember why the review had troubled him so much, what he had to do, and what the last meager shreds of his courage must be devoted to.

Gathering his remaining sanity, or lack thereof, Mr. Plusope did the unthinkable—he questioned.

"B-but, sir, this," poor girl, he thought, "Christine Daae, she's j-just a chorus girl. I m-mean, is she really—"

"Yes," the suddenly very angry masked man interrupted, his eyes again spitting something more than fire. Mr. Plusope saw in them the very clear image of an early grave. "She is. And I will not have questioning of my review. You will print this _exactly _as I have written it." This was a new fury to him. It was in fact almost a _rage_. The madman grabbed him by his shirt collar, bringing their faces much too close, reeking of death and destruction and music. "Am I quite clear, Mr. Plusope?"

"Y-y-yes." The one word calmed the man, and his ever-changing eyes morphed again into something almost akin to…serenity?

"Good, very good." He released the petrified editor, "and regarding Miss" he paused, a strange tone of his voice overtaking the threatening boom of the previous conversation, "Daae, I am well aware that those jealous of her abilities will make their complaints known to you after this review is printed. Record the names of those who do so and leave it on your desk." He paused. "That will be all."

And the masked man was gone.

Jonathon Plusope slumped into his desk and prayed for the first time in a long while. _Please, God, help this poor girl. She'll need it._

Then he left for the night, locking the door and knowing that it didn't really matter.

"Look, she's over there. She wasn't better than Carlotta, was she?"

"She can't even sing that well."

"Have you _seen_ her high jump? The Critic wasn't talking about _that_!"

"What makes her so special?"

"I heard she bribed the Critic."

"Oh yeah, well, maybe it was a little more than money."

Christine tried to not show her burning cheeks. She kept her head down with her blonde hair covering her face. Beside her, Meg glared at anyone who came too close to Christine. Her own personal guard dog. Christine almost smiled at the image of her best friend, but then she overheard another whisper and laid her head on her arms, shielding her burning face from view.

It was just so embarrassing! Why had she ever even wished to be noticed that night? And deep down, Christine couldn't help but wonder if those malignant whispers might just be correct. Because, honestly, she had no idea what had brought that review about.

The thought of the aforementioned review made Christine cringe

* * *

_The performance of Strawberry Bushels was abysmal. The songs were commonplace, and any enjoyment that would have been taken from them was altogether ruined by the cawing of the lead, Carlotta Guielli. The rest of the cast was ordinary in their mediocre rendition of a performance already tainted by the manuscript. The one gleam of hope for the production was the voice of a chorus girl, Christine Daae. Ms. Daae possesses a voice finer than anything that Ms. Guielli could ever hope for, if in need of a little polishing. Indeed, it would be to the managers' detriment should Ms. Daae continue to play those parts that are better suited for those that currently play in more important roles. _

_The Critic_

* * *

It was that stupid review! What could have made the Critic write that about her? She had always heard the stories, urban myths really, of the man that went by the Critic, and reviewed every major theater production in the region. The man, or it could be a woman, no one really knew, was notoriously harsh in his words and ruined the careers of many singers.

So why hadn't he ruined hers? Why had the Critic, the most exacting censor that anyone had ever known, actually _promoted _her? Christine felt that she should be happy, but the ominous, foreboding feeling that had possessed her ever since she had read the review took over again.

Something was about to happen.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Ok, so, this is a very important chapter, and I need your feedback, people.**_

_**Honestly, this is one of the first scenes that came into my head when I first thought of this story and I've been thinking about how to write it ever since.**_

_**Seriously, it's a really important scene.**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera.**_

* * *

It had been a week since the disquieting review, and Christine felt that everyone had finally begun to forget about her role in it. The only thing that most of the readers had remembered from the review was how the Critic had panned the production. Audience members became fewer and fewer as more and more succumbed to the mental suggestion that the Critic had placed as to the quality of the musical itself.

Christine sighed, wishing that the public was not swayed so by a single writer's dislike of opening night. That one single, horrible review had caused an uproar among the cast members of _Strawberry Bushels_ with the managers leading the way in pointing fingers. However, the fury most horrible to behold was Carlotta's. At the daily rehearsals, she could often be seen screaming and swearing at anyone and anyone, with little Eddy Pickering close behind her, assuring the prima donna that she had sung like an angel each and every night of the production.

But nothing and no one was safe from Carlotta's accusations. Yuri had jumped too fast, the lighting was bad, the costume makers had made her a dress that was too tight, and, of course, the never ending…

"Christine sings like someone threw a sheet over her, all muffled and soft."

"Christine's voice was off-key; it threw me off."

"Christine, stop talking so loudly."

"Christine, stop mumbling your lyrics!"

"Christine, if you think you'd sing this better than me, why don't you just sing it for all of us now?" It was when Carlotta asked this rhetorical question that Christine most wished to crawl under the floorboards of the stage. She never had wanted to take Carlotta's place, she thought as her fellow cast members sniggered at Christine's beet red face.

But Meg, dear sweet Meg, had had enough.

"Carlotta, shut up!" The brunette calmly and bluntly yelled over. Christine, Carlotta, the cast, and even the managers stopped what they were doing and stared at Meg with their mouths in a large "O" formation. No one had ever so much as rolled their eyes at Carlotta to her face. And even though Meg had said it in the same manner that she would to a large barking dog, it was the most that anyone had ever openly challenged Carlotta.

All of the male cast members started to think that a cat fight might happen very soon between the loud soprano and the outspoken dancer. Some hopefuls even took out their cell phones to record the moment for posterity. But, sadly, it was not to be.

"Everyone, come, come, stop this. We must get back to rehearsal. Ladies, please contain yourselves." Mr. Reyer, the director, was not one of the males with his cell phone out. And, even more than Carlotta, the Critic's words had hurt him the most. He was determined to perfect the musical to its fullest extent.

At the words of the formidable director, Carlotta turned away from Meg, but not until she shot a glare meant to kill both Meg and Christine.

Meg had bent down to tie her shoelace sometime during the confrontation, so Christine took this as her opportunity to flee the scene without facing her friend or any of the other cast members. She really felt too miserable to talk to anyone. Why was Meg the one to have to stand up for her? Why couldn't Christine face Carlotta on her own? Because, Christine thought, you're too much of a coward. And with that discouraging thought, Christine snuck into the prop room.

She just needed somewhere to collect her thoughts and calm herself. She needed to be away from Carlotta's snide insults and the eyes of all the people that wondered why exactly Christine had found such favor with the Critic. So she went into the prop room, where the costumes and props from all of the previous musicals were kept. She liked this room. It was full of fantastic costumes, whimsical objects, and mysterious masks.

It was in the prop room that Christine was able to believe that maybe she actually deserved the praise that the Critic had given her. After all, hadn't her father always told her that her voice was a gift? _And where is he now?_ He was gone. So maybe her voice was gone too. Maybe, Carlotta was right.

Christine sank to her knees, despite the rough, dirty floor of the prop room, and ran her hands through her blonde hair. She struggled not to let the tears that were threatening to leak out fall down. Against her will, though, a sob broke out. It was then that Christine heard it.

It sounded like a sigh, and yet it didn't. No, sigh was too trite a word to describe the utter sadness and longing that was concentrated in that noise. Christine frantically looked around. It had been silly to come here, when she was supposed to be working on making the play better and showing her cast members that she wasn't a total failure.

Was there someone here?

She shouldn't have come here alone. All of a sudden, the colorful room and its occupants took on a supernatural aspect in the dim lighting. And, as Christine searched for the maker of the sound, she felt chills run down the back of her neck, as if someone was watching her….

Christine turned around.

All that she saw behind her was a pile of masks in the corner, lined up, thrown about, stored in boxes, masks everywhere. But, directly behind her, about 3 feet away, a mask faced her. This was an odd mask, and Christine stared at it in both curiosity and apprehension. Finally, she realized why this mask was so different from those around it: It was entirely black. Where all of the other costume masks had colorful patterns, feathers, and glitter, this mask was utterly and completely plain. Also, it was a full face mask. All around it, there were half masks, masquerade masks, small masks for the eyes, masks meant to show the mouth, but none that were meant to fully cover the face.

Christine morbidly stared at the mask for a moment, staring into the empty eye sockets. The mask had been right behind her. It was just a mask. Masks couldn't make noises, right? Right?

It was then that the light went out in the prop room.

It had been a tenth of a second. Less really. The light bulb flickered right back on, spreading its weak, yellow light once again. But Christine was already running out of the prop room and toward the well-populated stage.

For at that tiny, fleeting instant, she could have sworn that two little lights stared out right back at her through the darkness…almost like….two yellow…eyes.

It had been a trick, she told herself. Just a little mistake that her brain made when the sudden darkness confused it. There couldn't have been…eyes behind that mask….staring right back at her…locking eyes with her.

No, it was nothing, she told herself. But, still, she didn't stop shaking until she found Meg and they were going through the rehearsal again.

But, in the prop room, seconds after Christine left, a similarly shaking, white gloved hand reached out and shut off the lights in the prop room. And in the total darkness of the deserted

room, something sighed.

* * *

_**So, I hope that I did that little chapter justice. Yes, I know, not a whole lot happened, but this is the first actual sighting/meeting. It's important. Now, again, tell me what you think!**_

_**Questions? Comments? Concerns?**_

_**TwilightSnowStar**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera.**_

* * *

"Alright, everybody, good work today! Remember," Mr. Reyer looked down at the ground and gulped, "we have a performance tonight, and then tomorrow night is the last night of the show. Excellent work, everyone, it's been a real pleasure." The cast smiled at their director's nice, pleasing, effervescent words. It didn't matter if they had really done well or not, they were grateful for the man's praise.

The director sighed. He had known that tensions had been high ever since the Critic's review of the first night's performance. In all honesty, Reyer agreed with some of the Critic's minor critiques. The music was ok, that was the most he could hope for, and the songs themselves were trite and simplistic. He had known that when he had accepted the directing position. But the Critic's preferred choice of leading lady? Mr. Reyer looked over to the quiet blonde awkwardly waiting for her short, brunette friend that had almost started the fight with Carlotta those weeks ago. Reyer struggled to remember the brunette's name, only remembering the flawless jumps and dancer's grace that the more outgoing girl possessed. Meg. That was it. And the poor, shy blonde. Christine. Reyer did not struggle to recall her name. At one point perhaps. There were so many chorus members. All he could do was attach a face to what he knew about their acting, singing, and dancing abilities. Christine he used to know only by her pale skin, blonde hair, and quiet voice. She wasn't a gifted dancer, but she performed well enough. She was just another member of the chorus.

Not since that review.

He would have been forced to memorize her name to her face after that, even without Carlotta's frequent demands to have her fired from the production. For whatever reason, Carlotta was convinced that the Daae girl was a threat. Carlotta was scared of the review. But why? Reyer thought. Christine had a nice enough voice, even a pretty one, but none of the power or range of Carlotta's, even though that was where most of Carlotta's gift was. No, Carlotta shouldn't be worried. It was more important to be heard than to be merely seen. Christine was not meant to be a lead. She was too shy, too uncomfortable when anyone looked too long at her, or whenever she had to sing alone. She was not meant to leave the protection of the chorus.

So why had the Critic demanded that she replace Carlotta? It just didn't make sense. Surely anyone who had analyzed Christine's performance that first night—as the Critic so obviously had—could realize that she could never replace Carlotta. Reyer had wondered and wondered over that review and the man—or woman—who had written it. He simply could not see the reason as to why the Critic would pick someone as obscure, plain, and quiet as Christine Daae as to be better than Carlotta. He had heard the rumors, that Christine had somehow bribed the Critic into giving her a good review, but Reyer doubted it. He had read many reviews by the Critic over his theater career, and the writer had never been less than bitingly, horribly honest, perhaps with a large dose of cynicism for everything, but never truly lying.

No, the director had no idea why the Critic had singled out Christine, and that worried Mr. Reyer very, very much.

For the Critic, as Mr. Reyer was quite capable of understanding, was an artist. And who could ever tell what an artist might do?

* * *

"So what are you going to do now?"

The last night had finally arrived. Christine found herself actually relieved that it had come. The whole fiasco with the Critic, the review, and Carlotta had made her start to really and truly hate the stupid _Strawberry Bushels_. So she was genuinely glad when it was the final production of the musical.

Christine applied her stage makeup carefully, relishing that this was the last time she would have to do it for this particular musical disaster. She hated the heavy makeup that all of the performers had to wear in order to have their facial expressions seen by the audience. Next to her, Meg was lacing and tightening her dancing shoes. She had been talking to Christine about what she would do once the production was finished, after tonight.

Christine sighed, slowly applying her bright red lipstick to already pink lips, "I don't know. I'll probably just end up working more hours at the restaurant until they tell us that they're ready for another play."

Meg nodded, "Yeah, I already talked to Mandy about it, and she said that I can come back to the studio to teach the little kids." Meg's eyes shone. She loved her job at Mandy McShane's Dance Studio, where she occasionally worked when there were no theater productions taking up her time.

Christine smiled, "That's good," she tried to say as whole-heartedly as she could. Meg at least liked her job; Christine spent the theater off time working in a restaurant near her apartment. It was boring, mundane work, but the pay and the tips were good. What else was she supposed to do? She couldn't teach, like Meg. She couldn't even sing outside of the chorus! Sometimes she felt like her life was going nowhere. The only thing that she thought she might want to consider as her future would be something involving singing, but she knew she wasn't good enough. So what was left? Was she supposed to just drift through her life like this, working in a dead-end job and being an occasional chorus member for the rest of her life? It wasn't supposed to be like this. She wasn't supposed to be like this.

"Yeah, I'm really excited. Christine? Christine, are you ok? Christine?" The anxious Meg waved a hand in front of Christine's blue eyes, coming back after being unfocused in a way that reminded Meg of a time that she would rather not remember.

Christine blinked and smiled sheepishly at Meg, "Sorry, Meg, I zoned out for a sec."

Meg wasn't completely convinced, "You sure? Are you feeling ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry about it," Christine looked around the dressing room. "Come on; it looks like everyone's almost ready."

Struggling to appear normal in front of Meg, Christine tugged on her friend's arm, pulling her towards the stage entrance where most of the other cast member's were. Any question of what Christine Daae would do with her life would have to wait. Plastering on her stage smile, Christine wondered if it would always have to wait.

* * *

Unbeknownst to anyone acting upon stage and to the true actors seated below in the form of the audience, there was a man. This man had seen the play countless times of course. He had attended every single night that it had been playing. Why had this man done this? What compelled him to have the mediocre production replayed in front of him over and over again?

What made him clench his fists and tilt back his head in disgust when the leading lady sang?

What made him move his eyes toward the stage entrance where he knew that the rest of the cast would come running out ridiculously? Why did this man who clearly was searching eagerly for someone, struggle to remain so calm when there was no one around him?

What caused this man, this shadow, to keep his eyes trained on a single, insignificant chorus girl? Why did he slightly, imperceptibly, lean towards the direction from whence this girl sang?

Who was this strange man?

And why did he wear a mask?

* * *

"Excellent work, everyone! It has been an honor to work with all of you over the past months. The company will be in touch with you all in a few weeks' time in order to talk over the next production and casting," one of the managers—Richard Firman—yelled over the din of clapping as his cast ran backstage after the final round of applause. Every member of the cast was hugging and congratulating each other, past animosities forgotten. Even Christine was embraced by some, and she was happy, hoping that everyone had forgotten the entire review incident.

She was not happy for very long.

When all of the congratulations and good byes were mostly said, Christine let Meg drag her towards the female cast members' main dressing room. Out of all of the rooms that the small theater had, including the stage and the main entrance, Christine thought that their dressing room was the prettiest and most colorful. In the center of the room there hung three antique-looking chandeliers, ones that glittered and shone out rainbow lights if Christine looked close enough. There were paintings from local artists all over the magenta walls, and there were rows of lit mirrors and dressing tables all along one side of the room. There were so many that each girl was able to get her own. Christine's was the one right next to Meg and farthest from Carlotta's, which was at the very entrance of the room.

Currently, each dressing table had something, a card, a small bouquet, little tokens of congratulations from friends and family. Carlotta had been gushing over her large bouquet of white roses and orchids when Meg and Christine had entered the room. Carlotta, finally feeling again superior over Christine, even condescended to give a snide sneer to Christine, "Would you like a flower, Christine? I have enough, you know."

Christine blushed and quickly shook her head. She didn't want a flower, she was fine. She didn't expect anything anyway. Who would give her one? None of her family had been there, and Meg was the only close friend she could really think of. Flowers just died anyway, they really weren't that special.

Christine looked up from the wooden floorboards that she had been walking over when she heard a gasp from Meg beside her. Christine just stared ahead at her own dressing table, shocked, while everyone else started to gather around the two and stare and murmur to each other. Carlotta, when she saw what was on Christine's dressing table flung her bouquet down saying, "There was probably a mistake! They can't all be for….Christine!"

But they were. On the dressing table, and even spilling over onto the floor, were dozens, at least a hundred, blood red roses. They were perfect roses, each with a black ribbon tied around the stem, already filling the entire space with their heady aroma. Meg, the first to get out of the daze at the sight of Christine's personal garden, reached for the stark white piece of paper that was the only relief to the mass of dark, deep red. She looked over to Christine and quietly handed her shocked friend the small, rectangular card. Christine took it with a trembling hand and looked down, reading the single word on the paper…

…_CHRISTINE_

* * *

_**Well? Questions? Comments? Concerns?**_

_**TwilightSnowStar**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera.**_

* * *

Stepping, stepping lightly, floating, sliding, gliding.

To the ordinary eye, a shadow was moving outside of the door simply marked "Valerius." To anyone with normal sight, the darkness fled as quickly as it had appeared. It took a special talent for seeing in order for anyone to notice how the door had quickly opened and shut with barely a whisper or creak.

The shadow was inside the room now. It watched the sleeping form, watched at how the old woman's chest rose and fell with her gentle breaths. The two, yellow lights that appeared to shine out of somewhere at the head of the shadow itself darted all along the room, stopping to scrutinize cards and messages written in a curly, clear cursive, the numerous flowers placed all along the room, and finally, at a picture on the bedside table nearest the sleeping woman.

The picture was enclosed within a cheap, plain wooden frame, but the smudge marks on the once shiny wood bespoke of regular handling. The shadow moved closer, so as to better see the figures in the photograph.

Taking up most of the space—obviously the subject of the picture—was a girl. The shadow's little lights—very much like eyes, but there could be no human eyes such as these—roamed over the figure of the blonde girl—certainly taken not more than a few years past—with the pretty, smiling blue eyes and the soft, pink lips. An awful tremor racked through the shadow, as if it was in pain for a dreadful, agonizing, wonderful moment.

The moment was gone once the shadow saw what else was in the picture with the girl. In the corner, barely able to be seen behind the girl herself, was a boy, similarly blond-haired and blue-eyed. The hand—did shadows have hands?—at the shadow's side started to clench and unclench, as if the appendage wished to be holding onto the neck of the infernal, grinning boy who had dared to be smiling and laughing in a picture that had contained the shadow's one source of light!

For an instant, an insane and seductive instant, the shadow thought of waking the old woman from her slumber. Shaking the frail form, lying unbeknownst and vulnerable, surely she would know. The old woman—Valerius—would certainly tell him who this intruder was. Nowhere in his information did it say anything about a _boy_. This couldn't be a brother or a cousin, his sources didn't even tell him about so much as a—the shadow growled lowly—a _boyfriend_. The shadow was starting to reach over towards the old woman's shoulders, readying himself to whisper the song that would stop her from screaming for a hypnotizing moment while he could subdue her, but the shadow's mind got the best of his hurried impulses.

No…scaring the old woman to death—a literal possibility—would help the shadow in no way. Besides, and this was the most persuasive of the shadow's thoughts, the old woman was a part of _her_. And any harm that would happen to the old woman would cause _her_ pain, which could never _ever_ happen.

The shadow stepped back from the bed, quickly and quietly. He had learned of the girl's father, her absentee mother, and this old, old woman who was no blood relation whatsoever, but the only one that the girl had written down for emergency contact information for years.

Yes, the matter of the—unknown, untaken care of, loose end—boy troubled him greatly.

The shadow left. He left quietly and quickly, making sure that every door that he closed behind him was in the same locked state that he had first encountered them. And as the shadow faultlessly broke out of an extremely secure wing of Mrs. Valerius's hospital, the shadow wondered.

Why had he even come? What was the use? What had the shadow hoped to gain from this venture? Was he really so far gone that he had stooped so low to examine everything about the girl?

But inwardly, the shadow knew that it did need to know everything about this girl, everything he could possibly find. And maybe, the shadow vainly hoped, maybe if he discovered enough, then he would be able to conclude that the girl was ordinary. She would be extremely average. And even as all of the shadow's being protested to this thought, he knew that in the end, if the girl was normal, a nonentity whose only bit of luck in the world was a strange voice, then it would really be better for everyone.

There was nothing the shadow wanted more than for the oddly bracing sensation that kept persisting out of somewhere below his ribcage to stop. That pulsing had felt like it would rip him in two when he first saw the _boy _in the picture. Surely, once the girl was found to be nothing, a total nothing, then the distinct and uncomfortable feeling would relinquish its hold on him? Once the shadow had had his fill of watching a lowly member of the human race, it would find that all of his past prejudices were completely justified.

The only relief that the odd feeling gave him was when the shadow looked down at the confiscated picture in his hands and traced the contours of the girl's face in the photograph.

Yes…the shadow would surely find that, after further study, this girl was perfectly and completely ordinary, quite beneath the notice of a personage such as himself.

But before that time, the shadow would find out who _exactly_ that _boy_ in the photograph was.

Behind the dark barrier that masked the shadow's face further than the darkness surrounding him, the shadow smiled down at the girl in the torn photograph in his hand.

_Christine…_

* * *

"CHRISTINE!"

Christine's head shot up, her bleary eyes blinking away the slumber that still clung to her eyelashes while she winced at the screeching tone entering her ear. Focusing her eyes and seeing what the cause of the high-pitched scream, Christine wished that she could be just having a nightmare. Right in front of her face was a pair of large, brown eyes, narrowed with exasperation. "Christine Daae, what's so wrong with your apartment that you can't sleep there?"

Jumping up out of her chair while simultaneously and subtly trying to check for drool, Christine tried to look like she was ready for work, "I'm so sorry, Rachel. I was just on my break, and I just sat down for a minute…" Christine trailed off as she saw the look in her boss's eyes. The short brunette was a distant cousin of Meg's, and the two both had the familial dark hair and eyes, fair skin, and upturned nose, but the resemblance ended there. Rachel had none of the warmth or grace or height of her younger cousin. Christine had always secretly thought that the older girl was so mean because she was jealous of Meg. She wasn't this unpleasant to people that weren't friends of her cousin.

Rachel scowled, "Well, your break is over. Try to stay awake for the rest of your shift, Christine." She stomped away, making more noise than should be possible for someone wearing sneakers.

Pulling her long blonde hair up into a ponytail, Christine readied herself for another two hours working at the place she always went back to after a theater production ended. She had never meant to be one of those eternal waitresses; she always had told herself that it was only temporary, that she would finish up her degree, but there was never enough time or money left over after basic necessities were paid for.

Christine yawned and waved as her coworker—John—took the chair that she had been sleeping in. The eternally smiling teen grinned up at Christine, "Hello, Sunshine."

Christine had to smile, "Hey, John. How's it looking out there?"

The boy smiled, "Eh, it's the usual Friday dinner hour." John's conspiratorial smirk shrunk a little, "Seriously, Christine, this is the third time in a week that Rachel caught you sleeping—the key word being _caught_," he emphasized, alluding to all the times that he had woken up Christine before Rachel could find her sleeping. Christine nodded sheepishly with a murmured, "Yeah."

John continued, "_Is _there something wrong with your apartment? You don't look like you've been getting a whole lot of sleep, Christine; no offense." Christine smiled at his apologetic and infectious laughter. She had noticed too that she hadn't looked like she was sleeping much: her eyes had thick dark circles under them, and every time that Christine had looked into a mirror in passing, she was unpleasantly reminded of a raccoon. What with the consistent yawning and increasing caffeine ingestion, Christine was almost surprised that John or her other coworkers hadn't questioned her earlier.

Looking down at John from where she was still smoothing her hair, "You know, I honestly don't know. I don't _think_ that there's anything wrong with my place, but I haven't been sleeping well at all." Encouraged by John's bobbing head, Christine confessed, "It's really weird, but for some reason I've been waking up in the middle of the night almost for two weeks now. And it's the strangest feeling…." Christine stopped, unwilling to divulge more about her odd insomnia. She couldn't really describe how she woke up with the feeling that, in whatever dream she had been having, that she was being watched. How, sometimes, when she shot up from her slumber with the force of the unknown sensation, she heard sounds like, and this was the craziest of her conundrum, like there was something just beyond her little space that was trying very hard to remain unheard and unseen. It wasn't particular sounds, exactly, but just the absence of them. Miscellaneous, white noise that was usual at night in her apartment was strangely missing. It often took her at least an hour to shake the odd feeling and to fall asleep again, but her interrupted nights were finally taking their toll on her.

John was nodding and giving Christine a sympathetic look that she appreciated, even if it only came from an adolescent. "Maybe you should think about sleeping pills, Christine. My mom had problems sleeping after my older sister left for college because she was worried all the time." He shook his head in mock disgust, "My mom says that she kept having nightmares that Reenie was incapable of doing her laundry," he laughed again. "Anyway, it just got so bad and freaky that she had to take sleeping pills for a couple of weeks. Once she slept normally for awhile, she didn't need the pills."

Christine nodded, "That's a good idea." She smiled into John's overeager face, "Maybe I'll try that. Thanks."

"Sure! Don—"

"CHRISTINE!" John and Christine winced as Rachel's shrill voice pierced their eardrums.

John smiled again, "Better get going, Cinderella."

Christine smiled as she ran towards the door to the kitchen, "See you later, John."

Christine shook her head, a rueful smile on her face at her coworker's simple solution. As she passed a seriously pissed off Rachel and took her writing pad for orders off of its shelf, she wondered if sleeping pills would really help her. As Christine took orders and smiled at customers, she continued to absentmindedly think to herself.

She really didn't feel like the situation was so serious that she needed to medicate herself. Maybe she would sleep well tonight; maybe it was just a passing thing, maybe, maybe…

It was probably all some weird recurring dream. She had sometimes had those when she was younger, but they were pleasant, fairy tale and best-loved story types of dreams. Dreams that were so wonderfully predictable and welcome that it was like hearing a favorite song again, played solely for her own enjoyment, where she could sing along with the lilts and slides.

Those dreams were mostly the byproducts of her father's and her own imaginations. To the chagrin of her mother, the two had always enjoyed sharing stories with each other, the more far-fetched the better. She had told him stories of pink elephants and dancing pigs and talking ice cream cones. Her father's, however, were much deeper and more beautiful than her child mind could have ever come up with on her own. He used to say that what he told her were old, Daae family legends, brought from Scandinavia where her ancestors had told these same stories by candlelight. Somehow, they mixed together fantastical elements of magic and music and little children…and angels. Yes, there was always some type of angel involved, but, it seemed to her in her recollections of the past, that those stories always were solely about the Angel of Music.

Christine sighed, inadvertently causing the woman whose order she was supposed to be frantically scribbling to huff in poorly concealed indignation. Christine tried to look alert to every substitution and nuanced technique that the woman wished to inflict on her tuna melt. She struggled not to roll her eyes at the overly made up woman and to stay in the present moment, away from thoughts that were a work hazard. She did as she always did with her memories: locked them away in a mental box and hid the key until such a time that she could safely examine them.

* * *

"Maybe we should do this one. That's always a family favorite, right?" Giles Andrew wondered out loud, holding a script in one hand and brandishing a cigarette in the other.

Next to him, Richard Firming tried to discreetly distance himself from the cigarette smoke that Giles kept exhaling, "Yes, that one's possible, but is it too much like _Tractor Days_?" The two theater managers simultaneously winced at that disaster of a production. The whole drama with Carlotta and the chorus girl—Carol? Crystal? The one the critic had liked—had left the managers with splitting headaches, and slightly uncomfortable feelings in the pits of their stomachs. They did not enjoy drama, just made their living from it. And they were able to, at this point, distinguish between good drama and bad drama. Carlotta Guielli, coupled with a threat to her beloved and self-appointed position, was nothing but bad drama.

It was all that chorus girl's fault.

Richard honestly wished that he had chosen a different profession for his life. Actors, actresses, singers, and dancers—ridiculous—they thought more about their own "talents" than anyone else. He picked up the pile of mail that had been laid haphazardly on his desk since both he and Giles had entered there plain, unkempt, gray office behind the stage of the theater. It was the usual mail: bills, resumes with people begging to be part of the next performance of whatever, more bills, complaints, court orders, the third round of bills, and so on and so forth, all on neatly typed white envelopes containing Spartan, clean black type.

Richard flipped through all of it, dropping it either back onto his desk or into the trash accordingly, while Giles kept muttering to himself about doing a stage rendition of children's tales.

"What do you think about this one? I think it would make Carlotta happy at—Richard? Richard, what is it? What's that?"

Giles Andrew looked quizzically at his business partner who was staring wide eyed at a large, thick-looking piece of parchment held in his hand. The similarly thick and aged-looking envelope was held in Richard's shaking hand. Grabbing the envelope from Richard's hold, Giles read the front. In what looked like a toddler's scribble were the barely legible names of the managers and the theater's address.

* * *

"Where is it?" the old woman asked the young nurse by her side. "Did it fall down? Is it behind the table? I can't see…" Mrs. Valerius was upset, and watching this newly hired girl struggling to find the picture; she knew the girl was inexperienced, but she should have been able to find the photograph. It was times like this—when no one could do a job as well as she herself could—that the old Mrs. Valerius felt the annoyance of being bedridden and old and brittle.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Valerius," the nurse said sincerely, "but I can't find the picture of your granddaughter anywhere. Are you certain that you didn't remove it from the frame?" she said gently. "You do show it around quite a bit."

The old woman huffed. "Yes, I'm sure. I'm old, but my mind hasn't left me yet," she said pointedly to the nurse whose name she didn't even know.

The woman—what did her nametag say? Marcia? Mary? Mrs. Valerius's eyes couldn't quite make it out—nodded. "Well, I'm sure it'll turn up eventually. You can just tell your granddaughter to get you a new picture next time she visits." Mrs. Valerius inwardly knew this, but it was still disconcerting. Her mind really wasn't going, was it? She had only thought that it was her body with its aches and pains and slowness was the thing that had been betraying her for the last few years. Would she let this…candy striper…know that? Of course not. No matter how many memories she lost, she was not stupid. "Yes, yes, I know. I'm tired now." Mrs. Valerius looked down at the floor, not liking to lie at someone to their face and really wanting the nurse to leave, "I'm going to take a nap."

The young woman—Marissa—smiled, "Ok, Mrs. Valerius, I'll just close your room door behind me. Sleep tight," she twittered.

Old Mrs. Valerius lay her head down on her pillow, sighing. When would Christine come again? She normally came at least every two weeks, but the older woman knew that she was busy just trying to survive. Christine was adaptable, but still, the sharp old woman worried over her adopted granddaughter.

Turning on her side and thinking that maybe she would take a nap, just so that she wouldn't have been lying to the naïve girl, Mrs. Valerius saw the floor on the other side of her bed. On the floor was something that confused her very much, and made her wonder if perhaps she was losing her mind. There, on the green linoleum was a portion of the missing picture, but it was odd. Christine, the focus of the well-beloved photograph, looked to be totally absent, as if someone had taken great care to remove only the one corner.

There on the floor was the rest of the photograph: Raoul.

* * *

_**Questions? Comments? Concerns?**_

_**TwilightSnowStar**_


End file.
